IC-NRLF 


07? 


MOTLEY  MEASURES 


Portrait  hy  Eve  Watson  Schutze 


JVleasuros 


Lesion  Taylor 


Chicago 
O  ^ 

aurentian  Publishers 

7973 


Copyright  1913 

h 
THE  LAURENTIAN  PUBLISHERS 


5,37 
*  " 


To 

J  K 


281318 


NOTE 

'"pHE  bulk  of  the  verses  in  this  collection 
•*•  first  appeared  in  The  Chicago  Tribune,  under 
"A  Line-o'-Type  or  Two."  For  this  reason  a 
number  of  jingles  are  included  that  otherwise  would 
be  omitted,  as  being  too  local  in  interest. 


Motley  9s  the  only  wear" 


JAIME'S  the  Master  Critic, 

Only  he  can  say 
What,  among  these  verses, 
Good  and  bad  and  worse  is  — 
What  will  live  for  aye. 

This  which  I  consider 

Good,  as  verses  go, 
Time  might  care  no  whit  for, 
Not  a  little  bit  for. 

How  is  one  to  know? 

This  which  I  might  pass  up 

As  of  little  worth, 
Time  might  choose  and  cherish 
Till  the  nations  perish 

From  the  face  of  Earth. 

Since  in  every  case,  then, 

I  should  be  in  doubt, 
Why  should  I  assay  them? 
Why  attempt  to  weigh  them?  — 

Time  will  sort  'em  out. 


INVOCATION 

O  COMIC  Spirit,  hovering  overhead, 

With  sage's  brows  and  finely-tempered 

smile, 

From  whose  bowed  lips  a  silvery  laugh  is  sped 
At  pedantry,  stupidity,  and  guile, — 

So  visioned  by  that  sage  on  whom  you  bent 
Always  a  look  of  perfect  sympathy, 
Whose   laugh,   like   yours,   was   never   idly 

spent, — 
Look,  Spirit,  sometimes  fellowly  on  me! 

Instruct  and  guide  me  in  the  gentle  art 
Of  thoughtful  laughter  —  once  satyric  noise; 
Vouchsafe  to  me,  I  humbly  ask,  some  part, 
However  little,  of  your  perfect  poise. 

Keep  me  from  bitterness,  contempt,  and 

scorn, 

From  anger,  pride,  impatience,  and  disdain. 
When  I  am  self-deceived  your  smile  shall 

warn, 
Your  volleyed  laughter  set  me  right  again. 

Am  I  inspired  to  mirth  or  mockery, 
Grant,  Spirit,  that  it  be  not  overdrawn; 
And  am  I  moved  to  malice,  let  it  be 
Only  "the  sunny  malice  of  a  faun." 


13 


CANOPUS 


quacks  with  pills  political  would 
dope  us, 

When  politics  absorbs  the  livelong  day, 
I  like  to  think  about  the  star  Canopus, 
So  far,  so  far  away. 

Greatest  of  visioned  suns,  they  say  who  list 

'em; 

To  weigh  it  science  always  must  despair. 
Its  shell  would  hold  our  whole  dinged  solar 

system, 
Nor  ever  know  'twas  there. 

When  temporary  chairmen  utter  speeches, 
And  frenzied  henchmen  howl  their  battle 

hymns, 
My  thoughts  float  out   across,  the  cosmic 

reaches 
To  where  Canopus  swims. 

When  men  are  calling  names  and  making 
faces, 

And  all  the  world's  aj  angle  and  ajar, 
I  meditate  on  interstellar  spaces 

And  smoke  a  mild  seegar. 


14 


For  after  one  has  had  about  a  week  of 
The  arguments  of  friends  as  well  as  foes, 

A  star  that  has  no  parallax  to  speak  of 
Conduces  to  repose. 


15 


SPRING  IN  THE  SHOPS 

In  the  manner  of  Ezra  Pound 

\\71LL  people  accept  them?  (i.  e.  these 

bargains) 

O  dainty  colorings  and  range  of  prices! 
Gowns  of  charmeuse  in  all  the  colors  of  the 

season; 
Blouse  suits  of  Russian  cloth,  tucked  belt  of 

softest  satin, 
And  only  ?37.50. 

Beautiful    but     inexpensive     hats     (values 

unprecedented). 

Lovely  French  flowers  combined 
With   handsome   ribbon   or   numidi,   roses, 

lilacs,  wistaria,  in  beautiful  colorings. 

And  petticoats,  in  crepe  de  chine  and  chiffon. 

The  petticoat  oddly  cut  and  gored, 

That  holds  its  fullness  just  below  the  knee, 

And  yet  puffs  out  above, 

Giving  the  new  and  fashionable  outline. 

Soft  petticoats  of  sheerest  voile,  opened  on 

side  with  clasps,  in  straight  effect, 
Silk  jersey  tucked  and  plaited  ruffle,  with 

underlay  of  same, 
Special  at  $1.95. 

16 


THE  CUSSED  DAMOZEL 


Cussed  Damozel  cut  loose 
About  half-past  eleven, 
Prepared  to  do  as  wild  a  deed 

As  any  under  heaven. 
Oil-soaked  rags  were  in  her  hands, 

And  the  bombs  in  her  grip  were  seven. 

She  cried,  "We'll  blow  this  mansion  up 
Where  Lloyd  and  George  do  dwell!" 
uWow!"  cried  her  fellow-suffs,  whose  names 
Were  sweet  as  caramel  — 

Millicent,  Pansy,  Rosalys, 
Phyllis  and  Christabel. 


17 


THE  GADDER 

AMONG  the  folks  who  write  me, 

From  Frisco  to  Cape  Ann, 
Is  one  from  whom  I  often  hear, 
And  whom,  I  hope,  I  sometimes  cheer  - 
The  pleasant  Traveling  Man. 

His  lot  is  far  from  being 

An  iridescent  dream; 
And  yet,  I  nearly  always  find, 
He  holds  a  happy  state  of  mind, 

With  cheerfulness  his  theme. 

Despite  the  dreary  cooking 

With  which  he  must  contend, 
Despite  the  beds  as  hard  as  bricks, 
And  absence  from  his  wife  and  chicks, 
Sometimes  for  weeks  on  end  — 

Though  night  is  void  of  music, 

And  care  infests  the  day  — 
He  greets  existence  with  a  smile, 
And  scatters  cheer  with  every  mile 

That  marks  his  treadmill  way. 


And  if  he  sometimes  writes  me 

A  note  to  give  me  pain, 
I  guess  the  reason  for  his  knock: 
He  had  to  rise  at  three  o'clock 

To  catch  some  dismal  train. 

He  roves  the  country  over, 

Beersheba  unto  Dan. 
May  Heaven's  blessing  light  on  him, 
And  keep  him  sound  in  wind  and  limb 

The  pleasant  Traveling  Man ! 


HENCE  THESE  TEARS 

HPO  charitable  deeds  I'm  not  addicted, 

For  sentiment  I  do  not  care  a  prune, 
And  yet  I  weep  at  poverty  depicted 

In  any  illustration  or  cartoon. 
My  heart,  though  flinty,  beats  a  little  faster; 

I  choke,  I  sob,  I  simply  have  to  bawl 
When  I  behold  that  bit  of  broken  plaster  — 

That  patch  of  broken  plaster  on  the  wall. 

I  am  not  touched  when  halted  by  privation, 

By  frowzy  tramps  and  hollow-chested  hags, 
Nor  moved  by  the  familiar  illustration 

Of  starvelings  in  exaggerated  rags. 
The  'tiny  tot'  with  toes  and  elbows  showing, 

The  widow  in  the  super-tattered  shawl 
Affect  me  not,  but  one  thing  gets  me  going  — 

The  patch  of  broken  plaster  on  the  wall. 

Denuded  laths,  forlornly  emblematic 

Of  penury,  and  hopelessness,  and  gloom! 
I  see  the  pallid  poet  in  his  attic, 

The  seamstress  in  her  six-by-seven  room. 
And  like  the  wall  my  heart  is  always  broken, 

I  weep  like  Mr  Southey's  waterfall; 
For  always  I  observe  that  tell-tale  token  — 

The  patch  of  broken  plaster  on  the  wall. 

20 


Oh  sign  of  bitter  pill  and  persecution! 

Oh  symbol  of  the  wolf  beyond  the  door! 
Oh  hallmark  of  the  direst  destitution! 

I  howl  —  I've  howled  a  thousand  times 

before. 
Ah,  would  I  were  a  Vanderbilt  or  Astor!  — 

I'd  carry  joy  to  every  humble  hall, 
I'd  take  to  each  a  nickel's  worth  of  plaster  — 

And  patch  that  broken  plaster  on  the  wall. 


21 


A  BALLADE  OF  STAR  DUST 

HpHE  heavens  are  open  as  a  scroll 
Before  the  ardent  eye  of  man, 
And  from  celestial  pole  to  pole 
One  pattern  serves  the  cosmic  plan. 
We  do  not  know  —  nor  ever  can  — 
Its  whence  or  when,  its  end  or  aim, 
But  this  we  see,  when  skies  we  scan: 
The  stuff  of  Cosmos  is  the  same. 

Star  dust  and  stars  —  an  endless  shoal  — 

And  light-lanes  labyrinthian. 

The  part  is  image  of  the  whole, 

One  pattern  serves  the  cosmic  plan. 

For  all  resolves  as  all  began  — 

Dead  worlds  and  quick,  and  suns  aflame; 

From  Acrux  to  Aldebaran 

The  stuff  of  Cosmos  is  the  same. 

Somewhere  among  the  worlds  that  roll 
In  Night's  great  glittering  caravan, 
There  sings  perchance  a  kindred  soul: 
One  pattern  serves  the  cosmic  plan. 
He  pipes  upon  the  reeds  of  Pan 
A  tune  like  this,  with  some  such  name. 
%{Ave!"     I  fling  across  the  span  — 
"The  stuff  of  Cosmos  is  the  same!" 


22 


Hail,  fellow  of  a  far-flung  clan! 
One  pattern  serves  the  cosmic  plan. 
Star  dust  our  end,  from  dust  we  came 
The  stuff  of  Cosmos  is  the  same. 


23 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  BETSY  JANE 

A  manuscript  found  in  a  bottle 

TT  was  the  good  ship  Betsy  Jane, 

That  sailed  in  a  spanking  breeze, 
With  a  bunch  of  militant  Suffs  on  board, 
Condemned  to  an  island  unexplored 
In  far  off  southern  seas. 

The  Suffs  they  went  on  a  hunger  strike, 

And  nothing  eat  would  they, 
So  the  skipper,  a  conscientious  man, 
Was  forced  to  the  forcible  feeding  plan, 

In  the  genteel  British  way. 

A  squall  came  up  and  the  ship  went  down, 

And  we  of  the  Betsy  Jane 
Were  left  on  a  raft  in  a  dreadful  plight, 
With  never  a  friendly  sail  in  sight, 

On  the  well-known  raging  main. 

Our  skipper,  a  conscientious  man, 

Divided  the  grub  with  care. 
Says  he:     "It's  share  and  share  alike, 
You  dames  can  eat  or  stay  on  strike, 

But  damme!  there's  your  share." 


24 


The  waves  ran  high,  the  grub  ran  low, 

And  never  a  sail  we  saw. 
The  Suflfs  they  scorned  the  pork  and  bread, 
And  "Votes  for  wimmen !"  was  all  they  said, 

And  never  a  chaw  they'd  chaw. 

The  starving  crew  of  the  Betsy  Jane 
They  watched  their  end  draw  near, 
Till,  "Blast  my  eyes!"  said  Bosun  Bill, 
"If  they  won't  eat  their  chuck  /  will!" 
And  the  rest  of  us  give  a  cheer. 

But  the  skipper,  a  conscientious  man, 

A  pistol  huge  drew  he. 
"Who  touches  a  hunk  of  yonder  bread 
Dies  like  a  dog!     Back  up!"  he  said, 

And- 

Right  here  the  tale  in  the  bottle  stopped, 

And  left  me  on  tiptoe; 
For  how  they  straightened  the  matter  out, 
Or  whether  their  fate  is  still  in  doubt, 

I'd  jolly  well  like  to  know. 


25 


THOSE  FLAPJACKS  OF  BROWN'S 

f")H  light  as  the  foam  on  the  Plover, 

That  mottles  that  magical  stream; 
Oh  light  as  the  vows  of  a  lover 

And  the  sighs  of  a  summer  night's  dream; 
Aye,  light  as  the  gossamer  stuff  of 

Salome's  impalpable  gowns, 
Are  the  flapjacks  I  can't  get  enough  of — 

Those  flapjacks  of  Brown's. 

A  cure  for  the  cares  that  beset  us, 

Each  cake  is  a  separate  joy; 
Gold-brown  as  the  sweets  of  Hymettus, 

But  lacking  their  classical  cloy; 
Brown-gold  as  the  burr-oak  in  Autumn, 

This  masterpiece  cookery  crowns. 
They  are  served  with  the  trout  (when  you've 
caught  'em)  — 

Those  flapjacks  of  Brown's. 

They  come  piping  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  you  tuck  away  tier  upon  tier, 
An  ecstasy  seizes  your  middle, 

A  sense  of  ineffable  cheer. 
Each  stack  that  you  tenderly  butter 

The  maple  juice  lovingly  drowns, 
And  you  eat,  till  no  word  you  can  utter, 

Those  flapjacks  of  Brown's. 

26 


O  cakes  of  alluring  complexion! 

O  dainties  as  light  as  the  dew! 
O  flapjacks  that  fond  recollection 

Will  always  present  to  my  view! 
Their  like  you  will  never  discover, 

All  vainly  you  quest  them  in  towns. 
They  are  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Plover 

Those  flapjacks  of  Brown's. 


27 


BATTLE  SONG 

uWe  stand  at  Armageddon  and  we  battle  for  the  Lord" 
—THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

stand  at  Armageddon,  and  we  battle 

for  the  Lord, 
And  all  we  ask  to  stead  us  is  a  blessing  on 

each  sword; 
And  tribes  and  factions  mingle  in  one  great 

fighting  clan 
Who  issue  forth  to  battle  behind  a  fighting 

man. 

We  stand  at  Armageddon,  where  men  have 

stood  before, 
And  whatso  be  the  cost  of  it  our  voice  is  still 

for  war. 
Now  let  the  traitor  truckle,  the  falterer  go 

fawn, 
We  only  ask  to  follow  where  the  battle  line 

is  drawn. 

We  stand   at  Armageddon,  where  fighting 

men  have  stood, 
And  creeds  and  races  mingle  in  one  great 

brotherhood; 
And  here  from  dawn  to  darkness  we  battle 

for  the  Lord;  — 
Thy     blessing,     great    Jehovah,     on     each 

impatient  sword! 
June  20,  1912.  28 


CHILDREN 

COMETIMES  our  welcome  has  no  tongue; 

Children  are  often  in  the  way. 
We  tolerate  them  while  they're  young, 
And  do  not  always  share  their  play. 

We  play  our  games  and  they  play  theirs. 
And  when  a  dozen  years  have  flown 

They  have,  we  find,  their  own  affairs 
And  all  their  interests  are  their  own. 

They  are,  we  reason,  in  our  debt, 

And  wistfully  we  look  for  pay: 
They  give  us  what  we  ask  —  and  yet 

We  feel  we're  rather  in  the  way. 

Our  love,  now  fond,  would  manifest 

Itself  in  every  act  and  word; 
But  we  are  wont  to  veil  it,  lest 

We  feel  a  little  bit  absurd. 

More  fond  we  grow,  and  duteous; 

We  only  live  for  them,  we  say. 
They  too  would  live  —  but  not  for  us;  — 

So  runs  this  pleasant  world  away. 


ON  THE  EVE 


fare  they  forth  to  battle, 
And  none  for  peace  shall  sue; 
And  ye  who  sneer  and  cavil  — 
They  fight  your  battle,  too. 
Scoff  if  you  will,  but  stand  aside, 
For  there  is  work  to  do. 

All  ye  who  mock  and  flout  them 

May  go  your  idle  ways: 
They  care  for  no  man's  censure, 

They  ask  for  no  man's  praise. 
Against  Oppression's  sullen  ranks 

A  stainless  flag  they  raise. 

And  every  wife  and  mother, 
And  child  that  hugs  her  knee, 

And  every  son  and  father 
That  is  or  is  to  be, 

Shall  one  day  rise  and  praise  the  men 
Who  struck  for  you  and  me. 


Then  go  they  forth  to  battle, 
And  high  the  hope  they  hold; 

And  in  the  time  to  follow 
Their  story  will  be  told: 

For  men  have  fought,  and  kept  the  faith, 
Since  "the  brave  days  of  old." 

November  4,  1912. 


BALLADE  OF  A  MOSS-GROWN 
SYMBOL 

J  MUCH  esteem  the  rubber-stamp  cartoons, 
Symbols  of  paleozoic  pedigree  — 

Age-battered  emblems  that  for  moons  and 
moons 

Have  roused  my  righteous  wrath  or  gurgling 
glee: 

Stern  Justice  with  her  Scales  and  Snicker 
snee, 

The  Horn  of  Plenty  stuffed  with  plums  and 
pears 

And  hothouse  grapes,  in  wild  luxuriancy, 

The  dear  old  Paper  Cap  that  Labor  wears. 

Dear  to  my  heart  as  dim  remembered  runes 
Of  childhood  twittered  from  a  nurse's  knee. 
Are  Uncle  Sam's  starred   Hat  and   Panta 
loons, 

The  Ship  of  State,  the  Snake  of  Anarchy, 
The  smoking  stacks  of  good  old  Industry, 
The  tyrant  Trust  that  nought  and  no  one 

spares  — 

All  these  I  cherish,  one  especially  - 
The  dear  old  Paper  Cap  that  Labor  wears. 


Fresh  as  the  dew  upon  a  peck  of  prunes, 
Green  as  Joe  Miller's  jocund  jeux  d'esprit  — 
So  fresh,  so  green  those  mossy  old  lampoons 
That  never  fail  to  make  a  hit  with  me: 
The  Dinner  Pail,  the  Presidential  Bee, 
Oblivion's  Chasm,  to  which  the  dead  one 

fares, 

And  —  rooted  like  an  oak  in  memory  — 
The  dear  old  Paper  Cap  that  Labor  wears. 

Immortal  lid,  I  lift  my  own  to  thee! 
Tenacious  lid,  that  Time  nor  dents  nor  tears! 
Symbol  encrusted  with  antiquity!  — 
The  dear  old  Paper  Cap  that  Labor  wears. 


33 


TO  THE  PROOF  ROOM 

'Q  MEN  of  dark  and  dismal  fate," 
A  prey  to  typographic  terrors, 

0  you  who  labor  long  and  late, 
Correcting  other  people's  errors  — 

Think  not  I  do  not  realize 

How  much  I  owe  your  Argus-eyes. 

More  times  than  one  you've  fixed  for  me 
Some  flaw  in  my  imperfect  "copy," 

Or  pointed  out  indulgently 

A  line  or  two  distinctly  sloppy, 

Or  marked  (how  oft  I'd  hate  to  say) 

An  accent  in  the  word  'cafe.' 

Although  at  times  I  may  appear 
A  trifle  querulous  and  hateful, 

1  hope  in  this  to  make  it  clear 

I  am,  and  always  have  been,  grateful. 
I  only  ask,  O  Argus-eyes, 
Don't  decorate  that  last  'revise'! 

How  many  are  the  breaks  you  mend! 

How  frequently  are  you  of  service! 
And  few  who  read  this  comprehend 

How  tense   your  work,  how  close  and 

nervous. 

I  understand  and  sympathize  — 
Yet  beg,  keep  off  that  last  'revise'! 

34 


Because,  to  your  judicious  sight, 
A  sentence  may  be  in  confusion, 

Don't  feel  that  you  must  make  it  right 
Oh  leap  not  to  that  vain  conclusion! 

Therein  resides,  as  like  as  not, 

A  joke  —  a  feeble  joke,  God  wot  — 

But  still  a  joke,  whose  life  depends 
Perchance  upon  a  single  letter; 

And  though  the  line  your  eye  offends, 
Seek  not,  I  beg,  to  make  it  better. 

When  I  have  left  the  office  roof 

Oh  spare,  oh  spare  that  final  proof! 

In  closing  I  would  voice  to  you 
My  high  esteem  of  your  vocation, 

And  incidentally  renew 
My  everlasting  obligation 

For  marking  (every  other  day) 

That  accent  in  the  word  'cafe.' 


55 


THE  ICONOCLASTS 

Phryne  they  say  was  not  shameless; 
The  fact  has  been  recently  aired 
That  her  classic  existence  was  blameless, 

As  white  as  the  bosom  she  bared. 
We'd  got  the  idea  in  our  noddle 

Her  conduct  was  far  from  correct, 
But  they  tell  us  that  she  was  a  'model' 
In  every  respect. 

Now  Sappho  is  cleared  of  the  fable 

That  wedded  romance  to  her  name; 
She  lived  (so  they  tell  us  by  cable) 

A  modest  and  virtuous  dame. 
Her  conduct  was  rigidly  proper 

In  spite  of  her  amorous  rime, 
And  gents  who  attempted  to  'cop'  her 

But  wasted  their  time. 

What  next!     Will  they  tell  us  that  Thais 

Was  prudent  and  proper  and  prim? 
That  a  gentleman's  chances  with  Lais 

(In  a  manner  of  speaking)  were  slim? 
Was  Salome  a  saint  petticoated, 

The  victim  of  scandalous  runes? 
Were  the  lips  of  Aspasia  devoted 

To  prisms  and  prunes? 

36 


Away  with  your  critical  history  I  — 

Its  findings  we  look  at  askance. 
Shall  these  dames  be  denuded  of  mystery, 

These  heroines  robbed  of  romance? 
Shall  any  old  science  professor 

With  cherished  traditions  get  gay? 
No!     A   health   to   Dame   Gossip,   who  - 
bless  her!  — 

Preserved  them  for  aye. 


37 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 

Lines    written    after    viewing    Mr   Arthur    Dove's 
exposition  of  the  "Simultaneousness  of  the  Ambient 

|  CANNOT  tell  you  how  I  love 

The  canvases  of  Mr  Dove, 
Which  Saturday  I  went  to  see 
In  Mr  Thurber's  gallery. 

At  first  you  fancy  they  are  built 
As  patterns  for  a  crazy-quilt, 
But  soon  you  see  that  they  express 
An  ambient  simultaneousness. 

This  thing  which  you  would  almost  bet 
Portrays  a  Spanish  omelette, 
Depicts  instead,  with  wondrous  skill, 
A  horse  and  cart  upon  a  hill. 

Now,  Mr  Dove  has  too  much  art 
To  show  the  horse  or  show  the  cart; 
Instead  he  paints  the  creak  and  strain, 
Get  it?     No  pike  is  half  so  plain. 

This  thing  which  would  appear  to  show 

A  fancy  vest  scenario, 

Is  really  quite  another  thing  — 

A  flock  of  pigeons  on  the  wing. 


58 


But  Mr  Dove  is  much  too  keen 
To  let  a  single  bird  be  seen; 
To  show  the  pigeons  would  not  do, 
And  so  he  simply  paints  the  coo. 

It's  all  as  simple  as  can  be; 

He  paints  the  things  you  cannot  see. 

Just  as  composers  please  the  ear 

With  'programme'  things  you  cannot  hear. 

Dove  is  the  cleverest  of  chaps; 
And,  gazing  at  his  rhythmic  maps, 
I  wondered  (and  I'm  wondering  yet) 
Whether  he  did  them  on  a  bet. 


BYGONES 

Lines  inspired  by  a  view  of  the  Cubist  Paintings, 
followed  by  a  late  supper 

f)R  ever  a  lick  of  Art  was  done, 

Or  ever  a  one  to  care, 
I  was  a  Purple  Polygon 

And  you  were  a  Sky-Blue  Square. 

You  yearned  for  me  across  a  void, 
For  I  lay  in  a  different  plane. 

I'd  set  my  heart  on  a  Red  Rhom^ozW, 
And  your  sighing  was  in  vain. 

You  pined  for  me,  as  well  I  knew, 

And  you  faded  day  by  day, 
Until  the  Square  that  was  heavenly  Blue 

Had  paled  to  an  ashen  gray. 

A  myriad  years  or  less  or  more 

Have  softly  fluttered  by; 
Matters  are  much  as  they  were  before, 

Except  'tis  I  that  sigh. 

I  yearn  for  you,  but  I  have  no  chance; 

You  lie  in  a  different  plane. 
I  break  my  heart  for  a  single  glance, 

And  I  break  said  heart  in  vain. 


40 


And  ever  I  grow  more  pale  and  wan, 
And  taste  your  old  despair, 

When  I  was  a  Purple  Polygon 

And  you  were  a  Sky-Blue  Square. 


41 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  ARTISTIC 

In  the  manner  of  Dr  Holmes 

T  DID  a  canvas  in  the  Post  — 

Impressionistic  style. 
It  looked  like  Scrambled  Eggs  on  Toast; 
I,  even,  had  to  smile. 

I  said,  "I'll  work  this  Cubist  bluff 
With  all  my  might  and  main, 

For  folks  are  falling  for  the  stuff, 
No  matter  how  inane." 

I  called  the  canvas  Cow  With  Cud, 

And  hung  it  on  the  line. 
Although  to  me  'twas  vague  as  mud, 

'Twas  clear  to  Gertrude  Stein. 

I  have  forgotten  her  remark; 

'Twas  something,  though,  like  this: 
"The  sinking  rising  lightens  dark 
To  be  while  being  bliss." 

I  hung  this  canvas,  as  I  say, 

And  everything  went  well, 
Until  upon  a  fateful  day 

An  accident  befell. 


42 


There  came  into  the  picture  hall 

A  melancholy  man; 
He  saw  my  picture  on  the  wall 

And  straight  to  laugh  began. 

This  laugh,  which  echoed  through  the  room, 

Expanded  to  a  roar; 
I  never  heard  a  person  boom 

In  such  a  way  before. 

His  collar  burst,  his  buttons  popped, 

His  coat  and  weskit  split; 
Then  down  upon  the  floor  he  flopped, 

And  floundered  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  while  hope  was  faint, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man; 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  paint 
As  funny  as  I  can. 


43 


ART  INSURGENT 

"They   desire   to   express   the    sensation  an   object 
presents  to  them,  never  the  imitation  of  it" 

J-TOW  blest  am  I  who've  lived  to  see 

Art  from  her  ancient  bonds  set  free, 
Like  ladye  fair  in  castle  shackled 
Until  some  knight  the  dragon  tackled. 

The  painter  used  to  learn  to  draw 
That  he  might  paint  the  things  he  saw, 
But  now  the  canvas  he  reveals 
Is  meant  to  show  us  how  he  feels. 

And  if  the  curious  things  on  view 
Afford  the  layman  any  clew, 
They  raise  the  interesting  question, 
'Can  what  he  feels  be  indigestion?" 

Now,  I'm  not  obstinately  blind, 
I  view  things  with  an  open  mind; 
I  do  not  say  that  Futurism 
May  merely  be  astigmatism. 

I  do  not  urge  the  Futurist 

To  hasten  to  an  oculist; 

If  this  or  that  I  can't  divine, 

It's  eight  to  five  the  fault  is  mine. 


44 


The  point  of  view  —  No,  that  won't  do; 
There  simply  is  no  point  of  view. 
Since  with  sensation  we  are  dealing, 
We'll  have  to  say,  "the  point  of  feeling." 

Tell  me,  where's  the  new  art  bred, 
"Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head?" 
Is  it  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
Or  from  the  liver  doth  it  rise. 

You  ask  what  ails  these  men.    Who  knows  ? 
Their  pea-green  pangs  and  purple  throes 
Might  be  set  right  with  calomel. 
As  Bunthorne  wails,  "I  cannot  tell!" 


45 


WOOD  MEMORIES 
To  T.  B. 

VOU  too  have  come  the  forest  way 

That  wound  among  the  ancient  trees 
And  crossed  the  open  places  gay 
With  asters  bending  to  the  breeze; 

And  light  the  burden  that  you  bore 
Along  the  frank  and  smiling  road 

That  led  you  to  the  lonely  shore 
Where  Rapture's  very  self  abode. 

You  too  have  known  the  many  moods 
Of  streams  that  babbled  as  they  ran 

Of  far,  unravished  solitudes 

Beneath  the  primal  spell  of  Pan; 

Have  halted,  reverent,  on  a  hill 

And  felt  what  speech  can  not  express  — 
The  "incommunicable  thrill" 

Of  unexpected  loveliness. 

You  too,  when  owls  were  on  the  wing, 
Have  wakened  in  the  windless  wood 

And  hearkened  to  the  murmuring 
Of  waters  under  leafy  hood; 


46 


Have  heard  a  wakeful  sparrow  call, 
And  seen  the  bees  of  heaven  swarm, 

And  watched  the  waning  firelight  fall 
Upon  a  sleeping  comrade's  form. 


THE  WHITE-THROAT 

J-JIGH  on  a  still  unbudded  bough, 
You  sing  your  measured  song; 
The  wilderness  is  with  me  now, 
A  thousand  memories  throng. 

The  breathless  grove,  the  windy  hill 

With  popples  all  astir, 
The  wayside  rose,  the  tinkling  rill, 

The  flash  of  wing  and  fur. 

The  river,  done  with  wandering, 

The  silver,  silent  shore  — 
These  come  before  me  while  you  sing, 

These  things,  and  many  more. 

Your  music  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Is  sweet  as  April's  sun, 
But  oh  it  is  as  sweet  again 

Where  unnamed  waters  run. 

For  in  the  brush  the  birds  are  few 
That  have  the  gift  of  song, 

And  so  my  heart  goes  out  to  you 
The  woodland  way  along. 


48 


SILVER  BIRCHES 
To  M.  C. 


fire  god  with  his  flaming  brand 
Has  passed  this  way  and  worked  his  will, 
And  still  the  silver  birches  stand, 
A  ghostly  huddle  on  the  hill. 

But  wraiths  of  birches,  tempest-blown, 

Yet  all  their  glory  is  not  fled. 
I  love  them  for  the  "beauty  flown," 

And  will  not  think  that  they  are  dead. 

The  flame  has  scorched,  the  gale  has  bent, 
The  elements  have  had  their  will, 

Yet  all  their  beauty  is  not  spent, 
The  silver  lingers  on  the  hill. 

When  of  our  youth  we  are  bereft 
We  love,  I  heard  a  woman  say, 

The  chastened  beauty  that  is  left 

When  time  has  worn  the  bloom  away. 


49 


THE  ROAD  TO  ANYWHERE 

ACROSS  the  places  deep  and  dim, 

And  places  brown  and  bare, 
It  reaches  to  the  planet's  rim  — 
The  Road  to  Anywhere. 

Now  east  is  east,  and  west  is  west, 

But  north  lies  in  between, 
And  he  is  blest  whose  feet  have  prest 

The  road  that's  cool  and  green. 

The  road  of  roads  for  them  that  dare 

The  lightest  whim  obey, 
To  follow  where  the  moose  or  bear 

Has  brushed  his  headlong  way. 

The  secrets  that  these  tangles  house 

Are  step  by  step  revealed, 
While  to  the  sun  the  grass  and  boughs 

A  store  of  odors  yield. 

More  sweet  these  odors  in  the  sun 
Than  swim  in  chemists'  jars; 

And  when  the  fragrant  day  is  done, 
Night  —  and  a  shoal  of  stars. 


50 


Oh  east  is  east,  and  west  is  west, 
But  north  lies  full  and  fair; 

And  blest  is  he  who  follows  free 
The  Road  to  Anywhere. 


51 


A  KITCHEN  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 

RAIN 

I^HE  rain  is  raining  all  around, 
It's  raining  here  and  there; 
It  washes  up  my  lettuce  seeds, 
And  doesn't  seem  to  care. 

REWARD 

Every  night  my  prayers  I  say, 
And  search  the  garden  every  day; 
And  every  day,  if  luck  is  good, 
I  get  a  radish  for  my  food. 

THE    GARDENER 

The  gardener  is  a  useful  man, 
Who  fits  into  my  garden  plan. 
He  comes  each  day  to  work  for  me, 
Except  when  he  is  on  a  spree. 

He  plants  the  peas  and  things  in  rows, 
And  plays  upon  them  with  a  hose. 
He  gives  the  garden  every  care, 
Except  when  he  is  on  a  tear. 

The  gardener  works  till  day  is  done, 
And  never  seems  to  mind  the  sun. 
He  keeps  my  garden  full  of  crops, 
Except  when  he  is  full  of  hops. 


52 


THE    COW 

The  friendly  cow  all  red  and  white, 

I  love  with  love  intense; 
She  wakes  me  with  her  bell  at  night, 

And  blunders  through  my  fence. 

She  wanders  like  a  vagrant  breeze, 

Most  amiable  of  brutes; 
She  tramples  down  my  beans  and  peas, 

And  crops  the  tender  shoots. 

HAPPY  THOUGHT 

This  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  bugs, 
I'm  sure  every  plant  should  be  sprinkled 
with  drugs. 


53 


SONG  — MR  C-RN-G-E 

^  PRINCELIER  son  of  Plutus  never 

Did  in  this  world  exist; 
To  nobody  second, 
I'm  easily  reckoned 
The  boss  philanthropist. 
It  is  my  most  inane  endeavor 
To  rid  myself  of  pelf 
So  every  cent'll 
Quite  incidental- 
Ly  advertise  myself. 

My  object  all  sublime 
I  shall  achieve  in  time  - — 
To  show  that  opulence  is  a  crime, 
That  opulence  is  a  crime; 
And  make  each  million  spent 
Eternally  represent 
A  never-ending  advertisement  — 
An  endless  advertisement. 

I  lie  awake  nights  inventing  plans 

To  give  my  wealth  away. 
I've  libraries  scattered 
And  spattered  and  splattered 

All  over  the  U.  S.  A. 


54 


And  every  hour  or  so  I  start 
A  Tund'  for  this  or  that; 

But  somehow  or  other, 

In  one  way  or  t'other, 
They  fall  extremely  flat. 

I  fling  my  gold  like  sightless  Plutus, 
The  mythological  mint, 

And  prattle  with  unction 

At  every  function 
To  get  my  name  in  print. 
It  is  my  daily  and  dear  endeavor, 
My  constant  end  and  aim, 

To  scatter  my  ducats 

In  barrels  and  buckets, 
And  advertise  my  name. 

My  object  all  sublime,  etc. 

[Goes  out,  throwing  money  around. 


55 


BALLADE  OF  OBLIVION 


to  be  President? 
Editors  can't  agree; 
So  many  prominent 
Statesmen  at  liberty. 
Who  is  the  next  V.  P.  ? 
Where  is  his  oriflamme? 
Pardon  if  I  tee-hee: 
Nobody  cares  a  dam. 

Nobody  gives  a  cent 
Under  the  canopy; 
Devil  an  argument, 
Devil  a  rivalry. 
Any  old  nominee, 
Any  old  shine  or  sham* 
Second  place?     Fiddle-de-dee! 
Nobody  cares  a  dam. 

Nobody  cares  a  spent 
Nickel  that  I  can  see. 
You  are  indifferent, 
/  must  confess  ongwee. 
Yawneth  the  bourgeoisie, 
Yawneth  your  Uncle  Sam. 
Tail  of  the  ticket?     Gee! 
Nobody  cares  a  dam. 


56 


Who  the  V.  P.  may  be  — 
Japheth  or  Shem  or  Ham  — 
Prince,  between  you  and  me, 
Nobody  cares  a  dam. 


57 


TO  JULIA— STYLES  OF  1913 

JULIA,  I  am  far  from  prudish 

(Though  in  virtue  trebly  armed), 
But  when  I  behold  you  nudish 

I  am  also  far  from  charmed. 
You  may  fancy  you  bereave  me 

Of  my  senses:  truth  be  told, 
Your  avowed  revealments  leave  me 

Absolutely  cold. 

Were  your  various  lines  Hogarthian, 

That  were  "something  else  again" : 
Ere  I  fled,  no  arrow  Parthian 

Should  be  pointed  with  my  pen. 
You  may  flaunt  your  lines  before  me, 

Far  from  ravished  is  mine  eye. 
Au  contraire,  they  merely  bore  me; 

I've  no  cause  to  fly. 

Julia,  just  a  word  between  us  — 

Further  I'd  not  have  it  go: 
You  are  not  a  sea-born  Venus, 

As  the  merest  glance  will  show. 
If  this  friendly  counsel  passes 

I  should  also  like  to  add, 
Love's  not  blind  —  why  give  him  glasses 

Till  his  eyes  are  bad? 


58 


Lady,  though  your  clothes  are  lawful 

They  are  in  the  worst  of  taste. 
Julia,  you  are  something  awful, 

And  your  judgment  is  misplaced. 
History,  that  dates  from  Eden, 

Puts  us  next  to  nature's  plan: 
Only  beauty  that  is  hidden 

Tantalizes  Man. 


59 


AFTER  THE  MOVING 

pOETS  can't  work  in  a  clutter! 
[Business  of  trying  to  think.] 
Here  the  confusion  is  utter! 
What  has  become  of  the  ink? 

[Business  of  trying  to  think, 
Pegasus  trying  to  caper.] 

What  has  become  of  the  ink? 
Where  in  the  world  is  the  paper? 

Pegasus  trying  to  caper!  — 
This  is  a  great  little  place. 

Where  in  the  world  is  the  paper? 
Packed  in  some  barrel  or  case. 

This  is  a  great  little  place 
For  a  poetic  suggestion! 
"Packed  in  some  barrel  or  case," 
This  the  reply  to  my  question. 

For  a  poetic  suggestion 

I  must  take  refuge  in  flight. 

This  the  reply  to  my  question: 
"Go  to  the  office  and  write." 


60 


I  must  take  refuge  in  flight; 

Here  there  is  utter  confusion. 
'Go  to  the  office  and  write," — 
That  is  the  only  conclusion. 

Here  there  is  utter  confusion, 
So  I  beg  leave  to  withdraw; 

That  is  the  only  conclusion. 
Order  is  heaven's  first  law. 

So  I  beg  leave  to  withdraw; 

Here  the  confusion  is  utter. 
Order  is  heaven's  first  law: 

Poets  can't  work  in  a  clutter. 


61 


THE  GREAT  OBSESSION 


with  the  rampant  broom, 
Fixed  though  your  resolve  may  be, 
Hearken  ere  you  clean  this  room 
To  a  word  or  two  from  me. 

Know  you  not  that  microbes  lurk 
Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

And  that  all  this  'cleaning'  work 
Simply  populates  the  air? 

Now  these  microbes  lie  asleep, 
Harmless,  in  a  thousand  nooks; 

Dormant  where  the  dust  is  deep, 
Back  of  pictures,  back  of  books. 

Lady,  clean,  if  clean  you  must, 

But  I  say  beware  of  these 
Demons  lurking  in  the  dust, 

'Pathogenic  entities.' 

Oh  the  many,  many  lives 

Ignorantly  cast  away 
By  our  dust-disturbing  wives 

Since  the  first  spring-cleaning  day! 


62 


Lady  with  the  cleaning  bee, 

You  are  much  too  young  to  die. 

Take  a  timely  tip  from  me: 
Let  the  sleeping  microbe  lie! 


63 


COMMERCE  AND  ART 

AN  ordinary  playhouse,  unendowed, 

The  seats  all  filled  and   all   the  boxes 

taken; 

A  blaze  of  lights,  a  happy,  careless  crowd, 
Material,  irreverent,  laughter-shaken; 
A  comedy  by  Shakespeare  or  by  Shaw, 
Something  poetical  or  controversial, 
A  first-rate  play,  performed  without  a  flaw : 
All  right,  of  course.     But  oh  it's  so 

commercial! 

A  temple  dim,  about  a  quarter  filled, 

A  cloistral  place  to  Culture  dedicated, 

A  knot  of  worshippers,  uplifted,  thrilled, 

By  thoughts  unutterable  agitated; 

A  play  by  Strindberg  or  Euripides  — 

A  joyous  skit  to  solace  and  refresh  us  — 

Something  to  edify  if  not  to  please: 

It's  not  well  done.     But  oh  it  is  so  precious! 


64 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  GOLFER 

Winter,  come,  and  free  me  from 

the  thrall 
Of  Golf!    Bestrew  the  lureful  links  with 

snow: 
For  they  that  are  condemned  to  chase  the 

ball 
Are  hopeless  as  the  Person  with  the  Hoe. 

Midsummer  form  is  gone,  nor  all  my  play 
Can  win  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  stroke; 

The  driver's  off,  the  brassie's  had  its  day, 
The  mashie's  blown,  my  putting  is  a  joke. 

And  yet  I  chase  the  ball  around  the  lot 
(He  needs  must  whom  the  golfing  devil 

drives), 
Hoping  I  may  —  but  knowing  well  I'll 

not  — 
Pull  off  a  brilliant  string  of  fours  and  fives. 

Sound,  Winter,  then,  "the  trumpets  of  the 
sky,"  _ 

Lock  up  the  links  and  throw  away  the  key; 
Else,  like  a  self-doomed  Sisyphus,  must  I 

Pursue  this  foolish  game  from  tee  to  tee. 


65 


BON  VOYAGE ! 

r*O-DAY  our  well-known  Ship  of  State 

Is  yielded  to  a  new  commander, 
Whose  fame,  'tis  pleasant  to  relate, 
Has  not  been  dimmed  by  breath  of 
slander: 

A  manner  trueblue! 
We  like  the  captain,  but  mislike  his  crew. 

A  motley  crew.     Some,  like  their  chief, 

Are  brave  to  face  the  wildest  weather; 
Others  will  cry  to  run  or  reef, 

And  show  to  storm  the  craven's  feather. 

The  officers  are  leal: 

The  keen-eyed,  lean-faced  skipper  holds  the 
wheel. 

The  course  is  plain  —  straight  out  to  sea, 
With  all  sail  set  and  bands  a-blowing; 

Scylla  (see  cartoons)  on  the  lee, 

Charybdis  on  the  weather  showing. 

"Sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State!" 

No  one  is  "hanging  breathless"on  your  fate. 


66 


You've  ridden  out  unnumbered  blows, 
And  weathered  all  cartoon  disasters, 

With  every  kind  of  crew,  God  knows, 
And  guided  by  the  least  of  masters. 
You  always  come  to  port, 

'Spite  navigation  of  the  wildest  sort. 

4 Sail  on,  O  Union  strong  and  great!" 

Whatever  happens  we'll  not  worry. 
Sail  on,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 
You'll  keep  afloat  in  any  flurry. 

So  no  concern  we  feel: 
Our  thought  is  of  the  man  who  holds  the 
wheel. 

Skipper,  your  health!  and  luck  to  you! 

May  all  prosperity  betide  you! 
Just  fix  one  eye  upon  that  crew, 

And  keep  the  nine-tailed  cat  beside  you. 
And  should  the  rascals  strike, 
Give  them  the  yard-arm  or  the  marlinspike. 

March  4,  1913. 


67 


BALLADE  OF  ONE  VIRTUE 

T  LEAVE,  or  shall,  "a  name  to  other  times" 

(At  some  small  sacrifice  of  modesty) 
"Link'd  with  one  virtue  and  a  thousand 

crimes," 

Like  that  of  Byron's  Terror  of  the  Sea. 
Yet,  buried  in  abysmal  infamy, 
By  almost  every  sin  poetic  stained, 
Still  may  I  lift  my  head,  of  one  fault  free: 
Never  have  I  the  Sonnet  form  profaned. 

In  common  with  a  host  of  scribbling  mimes, 

Poetic  license  I've  spelt  anarchy; 

I've  smashed  all  rules  (here  goes  one!)  forty 

times, 

And  have,  with  pert  and  flippant  parody, 
Murdered  the  classics  in  a  'fiendish  glee.' 
Few  are  the  misdemeanors  I've  disdained; 
And  yet  —  this  stiffens  up  my  vertebrae  — 
Never  have  I  the  Sonnet  form  profaned. 

That  form,  which  genius  heaven-born  sub 
limes 

And  less  than  genius  beggars,  reverently 
I  have  exempted  from  my  foolish  rimes; 
For  that  at  least  I  may  not  penance  dree. 


"Oh  my  offense  is  rank!"  as  you  agree: 
But  grant  me  this  one  virtue  —  I've 

refrained 
From  writing  Sonnets.   Heaven  my  witness 

be, 
Never  have  I  the  Sonnet  form  profaned. 

Apollo,  lord,  when  in  thy  chancery 
My  many  crimes  are  cried,  and  I  arraigned 
With  other  doggerel  bards,  be  this  my  plea: 
Never  have  I  the  Sonnet  form  profaned. 


69 


THE  SEASON  OPENS 


tariff  battle  now  is  on, 
Wide-mouthed  Revision  sounds 

tantivy  1 
The  tax  will  be  removed  anon 

From  dragon's-blood  and  divi-divi. 
And  east  and  west  you  hear  men  say, 
"Going  to  the  baseball  game  to-day?" 

Our  frank  and  fearless  President 
Is  smashing  this  and  that  tradition, 

And  stuffing  with  astonishment 
The  oldest  living  politician. 

And  east  and  west  you  hear  men  cry, 
"Wait  for  a  good  one!     That's  the  eye!" 

Embattled  dames  in  London  Town, 
Forgetting  they  are  perfect  ladies, 

Are  blowing  up  and  burning  down, 
And  raising  every  sort  of  Hades. 

And  east  and  west  you  hear  the  shout, 
"  The  pitcher's  rotten!     Take  him  out!" 

The  peace  of  Europe  is  at  stake, 

The  cannons  roar,  the  sabres  rattle; 

A  dozen  kingdoms  are  a-quake, 

And  listening  for  the  call  to  battle. 

And  east  and  west  men  yell,  "Keep  cool! 

Sit  down  there!     Let  the  umpire  rule!" 

April  10,  1913.  70 


TO  MARY  GARDEN 

I  don't  care  for  her  voice,  but  I  think  she's  a  wonder 
ful  actress — The  Cannery,  Shelf  K,  Jar  48 

CO  wonderful  your  art,  if  you  preferred 
Drayma  to  opry,  you'd  be  all  the 

mustard; 

For  you  (ecstatic  pressmen  have  averred) 
Have  Sarah  Bernhardt  larruped  to  a  custard. 

So  marvelous  your  voice,  too,  if  you  cared 
With  turns  and  trills  and  tra-la-las  to 

dazzle, 
You'd  have  (enraptured  critics  have 

declared), 
All  other  singers  beaten  to  a  frazzle. 

So  eloquent  your  legs,  were  it  your  whim 
To  caper  nimbly  in  a  classic  measure, 
Terpsichore  (entranced  reviewers  hymn), 
Would  swoon  upon  her  lyre  from  very 
pleasure. 

If  there  be  aught  you  cannot  do, 'twould  seem 
The  world  has  yet  that  something  to  dis 
cover. 

One  has  to  hand  it  to  you.    You're  a  scream. 
And  'tis  a  joy  to  watch  you  put  it  over. 


71 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT 

"Undarned  socks  are  signs  of  prosperity" — A  Com 
mercial  Authority 

\\^HENAS  abroad  my  Julia  goes, 

Ah  me,  how  disenchanting  shows 
A  hole  in  Julia's  silken  hose! 

And  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 

This  puncture  of  prosperity, 

Ah,  how  that  puncture  paineth  me! 

For  what  care  I  that  rents  are  high, 
That  cost-of-living  scales  the  sky?  — 
That  hole  offends  the  lover's  eye. 

My  adoration  'gins  to  dim, 
However  neat  and  trig  and  trim 
May  be  my  Julia's  ankle  slim. 

Ah  me,  again!     If  maidens  knew 
The  damage  such  a  rent  will  do, 
'Twould  never  be  exposed  to  view. 

Instead  they'd  wear,  when  Boreas  blows, 
The  reinforced  and  holeproof  hose 
That's  Harveyized  at  heels  and  toes. 


72 


THE  DEVIL'S  DISCIPLE 

r*HE  Golfer  stood  in  his  room  at  night, 

Pitching  balls  to  a  padded  chair. 
He  could  work  his  mashie  there  all  right, 
But  on  the  links  he  was  in  despair: 
'Twas  top  and  sclaff, 
Till  a  horse  would  laugh, 
And  the  best  he'd  get  was  a  measly  half. 
"I  never  shall  learn  this  game,"  quoth  he. 
And  I'd  sell  my  soul  for  a  seventy-three!" 

No  sooner  said,  on  this  fateful  night, 
Than  the  Devil  walked  in,  with  a  bow  polite. 
"Pledge  me  your  soul,  my  friend,"  said  he, 
"And  to-morrow  you'll  shoot  a  seventy-three. 
Don't  think  at  all 

Of  stance  or  grip, 
Just  swat  the  ball 
And  let  'er  rip. 

Leave  it  to  me:     I'll  turn  the  trick; 
You  pin  your  faith  to  your  Uncle  Nick." 
"Done!"  said  the  Golfer  —  ugladly,  too." 
"You're  on,"  said  the  Devil.     "Good-night 
to  you." 


Next  day,  when  "Mac"  drove  off  the  tee 
For  the  first  long  hole,  he  was  down  in  three; 
And  every  other,  or  near  or  far, 
Was  played,  somehow,  in  exactly  par. 
He  sliced,  he  hooked,  he  sclaffed,  he  topped, 
But  somehow  or  other  he  always  copped. 
If  he  hit  a  bunker  he  blundered  o'er 
And  rolled  to  the  pin  for  an  easy  four. 
Over  the  green,  or  short,  or  up, 
He  trickled  the  next  one  to  the  cup. 
Once,  when  he  pulled  to  a  bunker  tall, 
Which  promised  to  grab  and  hold  his  ball, 
A  caddie  said,  as  he  rubbed  his  eye, 
That  a  hoof  had  caromed  the  pellet  by; 
But  none  suspected,  who  saw  it  kick, 
'Twas  the  cloven  hoof  of  your  Uncle  Nick. 

Hole  by  hole, 
To  the  eighteenth  goal, 
Walked  the  man  who  had  sold  his  soul. 
Drive  and  iron,  and  pitch  and  poke, 
Till,  matching  his  card,  his  friends  went 

broke. 

For,  adding  his  score,  they  found  that  he 
Had  shot  the  course  in  a  seventy-three! 


74 


Whether  his  bargain  he  ought  to  rue 
Depends  of  course  on  the  point  of  view. 
At  least  "Mac's"  happier  now  by  far 
Than  when  he  was  eighteen  over  par. 
He  never  worries  about  the  trade, 

Or  ever  gives  it  a  thought  at  all; 
And  the  only  sign  of  the  pact  he  made 

Is  a  puff  of  smoke  where  he  hits  the  ball. 


75 


A  BALLADE  OF  IMMORTALS 

MOOK,  I  admit,  is  some  name, 
Dink  Botts  is  transcended  by  few, 
Reserved  in  the  Temple  of  Fame 
A  niche  for  Nik  Kik  and  Jap  Pugh; 
Witz  Wobbles  is  something  to  chew, 
Nor  must  Wava  Junk  be  forgot; 
But,  take  the  Academy  through, 
Jet  Wimp  is  the  best  of  the  lot. 

Lot  Snoddy  gets  into  the  game, 
Klim  Strize  has  a  place  in  the  zoo, 
Clint  Sipe  and  Ed  Ek  we  proclaim, 
And  others  who  pass  in  review. 
Pod  Dismuke  we  would  not  pooh-pooh, 
Consid'rable  monicker,  what? 
But,  give  each  Immortal  his  due, 
Jet  Wimp  is  the  best  of  the  lot. 

There's  a  chink  and  clink  to  the  same; 

It  sticks,  as  tenacious  as  glue. 

It  makes  all  the  others  seem  tame; 

It's  a  scream,  it's  a  hullabaloo. 

Of  all  the  cognominal  crew, 

I  venture  to  ween  and  to  wot, 

Jet  Wimp  is  the  Who  of  "Who's  Who," 

Jet  Wimp  is  the  best  of  the  lot. 


76 


Eh,  Prince?  I  will  leave  it  to  you: 
Oblivion  never  can  blot 
That  name  which  will  ever  be  new!' 
Jet  Wimp  is  the  best  of  the  lot. 


77 


FAITH  SERENE 

"Little  man,  why  so  kot?" — Emerson 

Y"OU  blaze  when  men  assail  your  faith, 

And  toryism  wakes  your  ire: 
Can  you  not  summon  up  the  wraith 
Of  Bruno  in  his  shroud  of  fire? 

You  fume  and  fret  at  skeptic  sneers, 

And  unbelief's  eternal  clack; 
Can  you  not  cross  the  bridge  of  years 

To  Galileo  on  the  rack? 

These  men  of  old  who  spread  the  light, 
And  died  of  torture  and  neglect 

Had  much  to  hazard  for  the  right: 
You  merely  stake  your  self-respect. 

These  men,  who  preached  with  holy  zeal 

The  things  that  every  schoolboy  knows, 
Were  bent  and  broken  on  the  wheel 

By  ruthless  and  fanatic  foes. 
But  clear  the  anger  from  your  brow; 

Men  are  no  longer  racked  and  whipped. 
The  ruthless  hand  is  palsied  now, 

And  persecution's  claws  are  clipped. 

Confess  your  creed,  be  what  it  may, 
And  toward  the  light  serenely  move. 

The  simple  faith  you  hold  to-day 
To-morrow's  verdict  shall  approve. 

78 


UTOPIA 


the  Socialist  programme  is 
carried, 

With  balm  for  our  every  hurt, 
The  world  will  no  longer  be  harried 

By  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
For  each  will  be  sure  of  a  lodging, 
And  eatables  daily,  times  three, 
With  never  a  debt  to  be  dodging  — 
And  heavens,  how  dull  it  will  be! 

Then  Right,  for  a  change,  will  be  master, 

And  Justice  will  open  her  eyes. 
The  widow  will  fear  no  disaster, 

The  orphan  will  stifle  his  sighs. 
With  never  a  trouble  to  borrow, 

From  worry  we  all  may  be  free. 
The  State  will  take  care  of  to-morrow  — 

And  heavens,  how  dull  it  will  be! 

No  drinking,  carousing,  and  fighting, 

No  sins  that  disfigure  our  time; 
No  journalists  trained  to  the  writing 

Of  stories  of  passion  and  crime. 
Enough  of  the  future  is  hinted; 

Utopia  you  clearly  foresee. 
Newspapers  of  course  will  be  printed  — 

And  heavens,  how  dull  they  will  be! 

79 


THE  LATEST  BOOK 

'JgAFFLING,  absorbing,  astounding,  in 

spiring/ 

'Deliciously  piquant,'  'original,'  'grand,' 
'Humor  unflagging,'  'invention  untiring,' 
'With  Dickens  and  Thackeray  fitted  to 

stand,' 
'Breathless,'  'exciting,'  'sensational,'  'rip- 


'Highly  dramatic,'  'a  masterpiece,'  'great,' 
'Poignant,'  'authentic,'  'convincing  and 

gripping'  - 
So  the  reviews  and  advertisements  state. 

'Masterful,'  'marvelous,'  'massive,'  'amaz 

ing,' 

'Witty  and  wise,'  'every  promise  fulfills,' 
'Dazzling,'  'dumfoundering,'  'daring  and 

dazing,' 

'Packed  full  of  action,'  'abounding  in  thrills,' 
Charmingly  whimsical,'  'striking,'  'com 

pelling,' 

'Technic  enormous,'  'it  marks  an  advance,' 
'All  other  writers  of  fiction  excelling,' 
'Wealth  of  ideas,'  'a  brilliant  romance.' 


80 


Thus  the  reviewers  in  rapturous  chorus; 
Thus  the  book  booster  composing  his  brays. 
Ripped  are  whole  pages  from  Roget's  The 
saurus, 

Piled  upon  Ossa  a  Pelion  of  praise. 
Greatest  of  novels,  beyond  contradiction, 
Here  is  the  triumph  that  none  may  deny; 
This  is  the  ultimate  whisper  in  fiction. 
Surely  you'll  read  it.     No?     Neither  shall  I. 


81 


MODERN  MATRIMONY 

He 
J^EAR  one,  when  we  exchange  our  vows 

We'll  knot  the  loosest  sort  of  tie; 
For  our  ideals,  like  our  brows, 
Are  broad  and  high. 

She 
A  simple  hitch  I  should  prefer, 

As  simple  as  we  can  devise; 
A  lovers'-bowline,  as  it  were  — 

One  yank  unties. 

He 
This  nuptial  pact  shall  not  coerce 

Our  own  sweet  wills  a  single  jot. 
We'll  chop  'for  better  or  for  worse,' 

And  all  that  rot. 

She 
My  love,  your  sentiments  are  mine; 

I  echo  them  with  all  my  heart. 
I  simply  can't  endure  that  line  — 

'Till  death  us  part.' 

He 

My  idol,  I  am  overjoyed! 

I  shan't  love  twice,  but  if  I  should 
This  contract  will  be  null  and  void: 

That's  understood. 

82 


She 
I  shall  not  dream  of  liberty, 

But  if  I  should  —  you'll  understand 
The  bonds  that  bind  us  now  will  be 

As  ropes  of  sand. 

He 
I  am  the  needle,  you  the  pole! 

O  Pole,  my  constancy  you  know. 
But  should  I  not  remain  heart-whole 

I'm  free  to  go. 

She 
I  am  the  flower,  you  the  sun! 

O  Sun,  you  know  my  constancy. 
But  if  I  choose  to  cut  and  run 

You  quite  agree. 

Together 
Since  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 

Herewith  a  sacred  troth  we  plight. 
Each  to  the  other  will  be  true: 

If  not  —  good  night! 


S3 


OH  JOY 


It  is  announced  that  the  watchword  of  the  Little 
Theater  will  be  <l°" 


and  trip  it  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  dramatic  toe. 
Dole  abandon,  dry  the  tear, 
Ye  who  hope  to  enter  here. 

For  our  end  and  aim  is  Joy; 
All  our  offerings  brace  and  buoy; 
We  whose  watchword  is  "Be  gay," 
We  will  chase  old  Care  away. 

Are  you  morbid,  are  you  blue? 
Is  the  weary  world  askew?  — 
Do  not  drown  yourself  in  drink: 
Come  and  laugh  with  Maeterlinck. 

Are  you  solemn,  are  you  sad  ?  — 
Something  Greek  will  make  you  glad. 
Are  you  wallowing  in  grief?  — 
Ibsen  will  provide  relief. 


84 


Are  you  troubled  with  the  pip  ?  — 
There  is  balm  in  quirk  and  quip. 
Strindberg  is  the  man  you  need: 
He's  the  cheery  little  Swede! 

Haste  thee,  then,  and  let  us  prance 
In  a  Dionysiac  dance. 
Come  and  trip  it  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  dramatic  toe. 


35 


THE  CURRENCY  BILL 


,  Jones  was  a  man  of  a  marvelous 

mind 

To  which  nothing  was  foreign  or  strange. 
He  could  talk  by  the  hour, 
With  a  singular  power, 
On  topics  the  widest  in  range. 
There  was  nothing  in  heaven  and  zero  on 

earth 

That  baffled  his  toppiece,  until 
He  rashly  one  day 
In  a  confident  way 
Attempted  the  Currency  Bill. 

The  Tariff  to  Jones  was  as  plain  as  a  church, 
He  threaded  its  mazes  with  ease; 

While  the  weight  of  the  stars 

Or  the  ditches  on  Mars 
Were  trifles  for  afternoon  teas. 
The  color-line  problem,  the  Japanese  row, 
He  discussed  with  exceptional  skill; 

But  his  brain  had  a  storm 

When  he  tried  to  inform 
His  friends  on  the  Currency  Bill. 


86 


That  got  him.     His  wits  were  reduced  to 

a  pulp, 

All  crumpled  the  cells  of  his  brain. 
They  took  him  away 
In  a  wagon  next  day 
To  a  place  for  the  cureless  insane. 
He  sits  on  a  bench  and  makes  figures  and 

things, 

And  all  men  may  obtain,  if  they  will, 
From  this  bug  financier 
A  remarkably  clear 
Account  of  the  Currency  Bill. 


87 


THE  JEST  OF  YESTERYEAR 


upon  a  midnight  dreary"  — 
Wait  a  moment,  do  not  go; 
This  is  not  another  weary 
Paraphrase  of  Mr  Poe. 
True,  the  volume  that  I  pondered 

Was  of  quaint,  forgotten  lore 
That  got  by  (but  how,  I  wondered!) 
In  the  days  entitled  'yore.' 

Things  were  gathered  in  this  volume 

Over  which  our  fathers  roared  — 
Gems  from  many  a  by-gone  colyum, 

Writ  by  Billings,  Twain,  and  Ward. 
Some  of  it,  of  course,  was  funny, 

More  was  sad  as  sad  can  be. 
How  it  ever  got  the  money 

Is  a  miracle  to  me. 

So,  when  dreary  seems  my  colyum, 

When  I  fear  it  grows  a  bore, 
I  take  down  that  yellowed  volume 

Of  forgotten  comic  lore. 
Seeking  vainly  to  discover 

Something  really  rich  and  rare, 
"Gosh!"  I  say,  "if  that  got  over, 

Why  should  anyone  despair?" 


88 


BETWEEN  TWO  CRITICS 

when  I  read  Old  Doctor  Hackett 

Upon  the  operatic  racket 
I  murmur,  as  I  tear  my  hair, 
uOh  gosh,  I  wish  that  I'd  been  there!" 

But  when  I  turn  to  Doctor  Gunn 
And  read  of  what  was  sung  and  done 
I  rearrange  my  hair  and  say, 
"Oh  gosh,  Pm  glad  I  stayed  away!" 


89 


OLD  STUFF 

JF  I  go  to  see  the  play, 

Of  the  story  I  am  certain; 
Promptly  it  gets  under  way 

With  the  lifting  of  the  curtain. 
Builded  all  that's  said  and  done 

On  the  ancient  recipe  — 
'Tis  the  same  old  Two  and  One: 
A  and  B  in  love  with  C. 

If  I  read  the  latest  book, 

There's  the  mossy  situation; 
One  may  confidently  look 

For  the  trite  triangulation. 
Old  as  time,  but  ever  new, 

Seemingly,  this  tale  of  Three  — 
Same  old  yarn  of  One  and  Two: 

A  and  C  in  love  with  B. 

If  I  cast  my  eyes  around, 

Far  and  near  and  middle  distance, 
Still  the  formula  is  found 

In  our  everyday  existence. 
Everywhere  I  look  I  see  — 

Fact  or  fiction,  life  or  play  — 
Still  the  little  game  of  Three: 

B  and  C  in  love  with  A. 


90 


While  the  ancient  law  fulfills, 

Myriad  moons  shall  wane  and  wax. 

Jack  must  have  his  pair  of  Jills, 
Jill  must  have  her  pair  of  Jacks. 


91 


VAGUE  MEMORIES 

J  REMEMBER  only  vaguely 

The  house  where  /  was  born. 
Of  course,  the  prehistoric  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
And  this  I  do  remember  — 

He  always  came  too  soon, 
For  ever  since  I  was  a  child 

I've  wished  to  sleep  till  noon. 

I  have  no  recollection 

Of  flowers  red  and  white, 
Nor  birds  (except  canaries) 

To  charm  my  childish  sight. 
And,  now  I  come  to  view  it, 

This  does  not  seem  so  queer, 
For  home  was  a  metropolis 

Until  my  eighteenth  year. 

Of  course  I  can  remember 

The  universal  swing, 
For  even  in  a  New  York  yard 

They  had  that  sort  of  thing. 
'My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then/' 

It  whizzes  that  way  now; 
And  all  that  I  could  ask  would  be 

More  feathers  on  my  brow. 


92 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  clothes-poles  bald  and  high; 
I  used  to  shinny  up  them  then, 

But  now  I'd  sooner  die. 
I  might  pursue  for  pages 

This  vein  of  vague  regret, 
But  that  the  union  scale  demands 

Four  rhymes  to  each  octette. 


93 


LOVE'S  AU  REVOIR 


there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and 

part,— 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me" 
To  bring  to  perfect  flower  my  strange  wild 

art, 
To  live  my  strange  wild  life,  I  must  be  free. 

1  Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  other  time," 
Let  there  be  no  suggestion  in  our  brows 
That  I've  philandered  in  a  foreign  clime. 

11  Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless 

lies," 

Remember!  —  I'm  another's  until  death, 
Or  till  this  new  infatuation  dies. 

Au  revoir!     When  we  return  (if  I  recover) 
We'll  get  together,  all  four,  and  talk  it  over. 


94 


THE  GENTLE  CRITIC 

"^  DISMAL  occupation  mine," 

The  Gentle  Critic  cried, 
"To  castigate  one's  dearest  friends 

And  lacerate  their  pride. 
Oh  what  a  painful  thing  it  is 
To  cavil  and  to  chide! 

u  Whenever  there's  an  opening 
I  always  have  the  blues, 

And  to  the  hateful  theater 
I  fare  in  leaden  shoes. 

And  what  a  bitter  task  it  is 
To  ventilate  my  views! 

"Indeed  it  is  a  gloomy  trade 

To  reprobate  and  ban, 
For  actors  are  a  kindly  folk 

Who  do  the  best  they  can; 
And  oh  it  is  a  joyless  job 

These  kindly  folk  to  pan. 

I  weep  for  them,"  the  Critic  said, 
"I  deeply  sympathize," 

Holding  his  pocket-handkerchief 
Before  his  streaming  eyes, 

While  sorting  from  his  adjectives 
Those  of  the  largest  size. 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR" 


Flora  McFlimsy  of  Michigan  Boul. 
In  spite  of  hot  weather  is  perfectly 

cool. 

She  has  it  all  over  her  namesake,  the  fair 
Miss  Flora  McFlimsy  of  Madison  Square, 
Who,  ages  ago, 
As  most  of  you  know, 
Lamented  the  fact  she  had  "nothing  to 

wear." 
Miss  Flora  of  old  bought  her  drygoods  in 

Paris; 
She  shopped  (you  recall)  with  her  friend 

Mrs  Harris. 
Her  garments  were  many,  and  costly  and 

rare, 
And  yet  she  complained  she  had  nothing  to 

wear. 

But  Flora  McFlimsy  of  Boulevard  Mich. 
Dispenses  with  ev'ry  superfluous  stitch, 
And  clad  in  a  single  diaphanous  gown 
Parades  in  the  sunlight,  the  joy  of  the  town. 
"And  if  I  show  through, 

What  harm  does  it  do?" 
Says  Flora  McFlimsy;  "I  leave  it  to  you." 


96 


Why,  none  whatsoever,  we  beg  to  reply. 
You  are  all  to  the  good  to  our  critical  eye. 
Proceed,  Miss  McFlimsy,  as  far  as  you 

wish; 

Parade  in  the  sunlight  on  Boulevard  Mish., 
And  let,  if  it  please  you,  your  vanishing 

dress 
Grow  fine  by  degrees  and  delightfully  less, 

Until,  like  the  dame 

Of  evergreen  fame. 

You  really  have  nothing  whatever  to  wear, 
Excepting  a  hank  of  remarkable  hair. 
And  should  you  appear  as  the  Lady  Godiva, 
We'll  stand  on  the  corner  and  hand  you  a 
'Viva!' 


97 


TO  LUCASTA 


me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 
Because  I  heave  a  sigh 
At  thought  of  comforts  left  behind, 
As  countryward  we  fly. 

Like  you  I  hate,  with  hatred  deep, 

The  city's  broil  and  brawl; 
But  ah!  to-night  —  where  shall  I  sleep? 

Or  shall  I  sleep  at  all? 

Like  you,  my  love,  I  deeply  crave 

A  touch  of  wood  and  wold; 
But  shall  I  skip  my  morning  shave, 

Or  shave  in  water  cold? 

I  loathe  the  city's  grime  and  heat  — 

We  cannot  fly  too  fast; 
But  what,  this  week-end,  shall  I  eat? 

Or  shall  I  sooner  fast? 

I  love  to  hear  the  crickets  rub 

Their  legs  in  choric  glee; 
But  where,  to-morrow,  shall  I  tub? 

Or  shall  I  tubless  be? 


98 


I  joy  to  hear  the  froglets  shrill 

Across  the  boggy  lea; 
But  well  I  know  the  chiggers  will 

Not  do  a  thing  to  me. 

A  has  the  town!     Vive  solitude! 

Hail,  lovely  country  scenes! 
All  that  you  lack  are  beds  and  food 

And  porcelain  tubs  and  screens. 

So,  think  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 
If  I  perchance  should  sigh 

For  creature  comforts  left  behind, 
As  from  the  town  we  fly. 


99 


TO  AN  APRIL  EGG 

Lines  dashed  off  while  the  coffee  percolated 

,  ere  I  crack  you  I  would  muse  upon 
The  flight  of  time  —  a  topic  somewhat 

frayed. 

Ah  me,  some  seven  moons  have  come  and  gone 
Since  you  were  laid. 

Much  water,  Egg,  has  washed  the  miller's 

wheel 
Since  that  far  morn  when  first  you  saw  the 

light. 

And  now  you  bless  my  matutinal  meal! 
You  bless  —  or  blight. 

For  though  I  have  my  grocer's  guarantee 
That  you  are  fresh,  as  fresh  as  may  be  had, 
I'll  lay  him  eight  to  five,  or  eight  to  three, 
That  you  are  bad. 

Hence,  Egg,  I  hesitate  ere  I  apply 
The  knife.     Art  sweet,  or  rotten  to  the  core? 
The  question  gives  me  pause.     Ah  me!  as  I 
Remarked  before. 

Enough  of  musing.     Let  us  look  inside. 
Ah,  yes.     An  egg  of  prehistoric  breed. 
Some  long-lost  April.     Jane,  the  window  — 

wide! 
Ah  me,  indeed! 

100 


ESPECIALLY  'THRU'* 


XTOT  least  of  Life's  Little  Afflictions, 

To  me,  is  the  spelling  that's  simp. 
A  murrain  and  all  maledictions 

On  spellers  who  mangle  and  skimp! 
Their  symbols  as  tortured  and  twisted 

Are  really  too  bad  to  be  true; 
I  loathe  every  word  they  have  listed  — 

Especially  'thru.' 

To  me  the  form  'prolog'  is  painful, 

And  'catalog'  gives  me  the  pip; 
Than  'thoro'  there's  nothing  more  baneful, 

And  'program'  would  make  a  saint  rip. 
Oh  wildly  my  hair  I  dishevel 

At  'fotograf,'  'handsum,'  and  'nu,' 
For  all  of  them  look  like  the  devil  — 

Especially  'thru.' 

Reforms  there's  no  shadow  of  call  for 

Encumber  and  clutter  the  earth; 
It's  funny  what  people  will  fall  for 

To  give  some  reformer  a  berth. 
Now,  tak  this  dam  simplinde  speling  — 

Yes,  tak  it  away  2  the  Zu. 
I  lothe  evry  word  beeond  teling  — 

Espeshely  'thru.' 


101 


BALLADE  0r THE 
"CHRISTMAS  NUMBER" 

A  "NUMBER"  colored  for  Christmas 

week, 

Polychromatic  beyond  compare! 
Words  to  describe  it  I  vainly  seek; 
O'erwhelmed  with  wonder  I  sit  and  stare. 
Some  of  the  pictures  are  pretty  fair, 
Some  are  indifferent,  some  are  fiat; 
But  one  there  is  that  is  rich  and  rare  — 
Give  me  the  Guy  in  the  Blue  High  Hat. 

I  like  the  girl  of  the  umber  cheek, 
And  her  of  the  French-vermilion  hair; 
The  maid  with  the  madder  dog's  unique, 
And  the  tot  with  the  peagreen  teddybear. 
I'm  charmed  by  the  person  debonair 
Of  the  purple  boot  and  the  mustard  spat, 
And  yet  a  preference  I  must  air  — 
Give  me  the  Guy  in  the  Blue  High  Hat. 


102 


The  crimson  crow  with  the  sky-blue  beak 
May  not  be  paralleled  anywhere; 
And  oh  what  a  wild  prismatic  shriek 
Are  He-and-She  in  the  cadmium  chair. 
The  dame  in  the  passionate  pink  portiere, 
The  cobalt  cop  and  the  carmine  cat 
Are  good,  but  for  one  I  chiefly  care  — 
Give  me  the  Guy  in  the  Blue  High  Hat. 

Color?     The  rainbow  is  on  a  tear, 
The  well-known  prism  is  on  a  bat. 
Color?     My  choice  I  must  still  declare  — 
Give  me  the  Guy  in  the  Blue  High  Hat. 


103 


MEDITATIONS  BY  A  MOSSY  STONE 

"Give  me  ten  accomplished  men  for  readers,  and  I 
am  content"  —  Walter  Savage  Landor 


Ten  accomplished  readers? 
That,  meseems, 
Puts  much  too  high  a  value  on  a  pen. 
I  never  in  my  most  presumptuous  dreams 
Have  thought  of  ten! 

Content,  indeed  !    I  should  be  flattered  pink; 
To  please  a  smaller  clientele  I  strive. 
I've  never  thought,  nor  ever  dared  to  think, 
Of  six  —  or  five. 

Why,  five  accomplished  readers  are  a  host; 
So  large  a  number  quite  abashes  me. 
If  I  have  thought  at  all,  I've  thought,  at 

most 
Of  two  —  or  three. 

And  when  I  view  this  Motley  Monument 
Of  jape  and  jingle,  paragraph  and  pun. 
I  sometimes  feel  that  I  should  be  content 
With  one  —  or  none. 


104 


NEW  LEAVES 

" 'And  every  day  that  I've  been  good,  I  get  an  orange 
after  food" — 'Stevenson 

IpROM  now  until  the  new  year  ends, 
This  my  resolve,  and  naught  can 

swerve  it: 

I  will  not  knock  my  various  friends 
Unless  my  various  friends  deserve  it. 


105 


TO  CONTRIBUTORS 

^!lLTHO'  the  children  of  your  brain 

May  fail,  perchance,  of  publication, 
Think  not,  Contribs,  your  efforts  vain 
Or  lacking  an  appreciation. 

It  is  my  habit  when  I  ope 

The  stack  of  thoughts  you  daily  utter, 

To  let  each  literary  hope 

Gently  beneath  the  table  flutter  — 

All  save  the  few  for  which  there's  room, 
Or  that  may  find  a  corner  later. 
The  others  flutter  to  their  doom, 
And  huddle  'gainst  the  radiator. 

And  here  to  this  poetic  heap 
Of  jests  and  jingles  without  number 
The  office  kitten  comes  to  sleep. 
Ah,  what  a  couch  for  feline  slumber! 

She  paws  in  the  poetic  pile, 
Contributed  by  many  muses; 
She  builds  a  bed  to  suit  her  style, 
Then,  purring,  settles  down  and  snoozes. 


106 


And  so,  dear  friends,  your  little  lays 
Are  certain  of  appreciation. 
Breathe  to  yourself  this  paraphrase 
Of  poet  Southey's  dedication:  — 

:Go,  little  thought,  from  this  my  pipe; 
Be  on  your  way,  and  do  not  tarry. 
Though  you  may  miss  the  Line-o'-Type, 
You'll  help  to  make  a  bed  for  Carrie." 


107 


THE  LONG  AND  THE  SHORT  OF  IT 

'pOR  love  of  Mike,"  some  readers  say, 

What  do  you  mean  by  w.  k.?" 
The  least  reflection  would  have  shown 
It  could  mean  nothing  but  w.  k. 

Then,  many  clever  folks  confess 
They  cannot  fathom  s.  to  s. 
Surely  that  shouldn't  be  all  Greek: 
What  can  it  mean  but  s.  to  s.? 

From  Denver  writeth  Mr  Neff, 
Who  cannot  puzzle  out  o.  f. 
Surely  a  man's  to  be  compassioned 
Who  hesitates  before  o.  f. 

Again,  we  are  besought  to  tell 
What's  understood  by  b.  and  1. 
And  yet  it's  obvious  as  a  barge 
That  b.  and  1.  is  b.  and  1. 

Another  pens,  "I  hate  to  trouble  you, 
But  what  is  meant  by  b.  t.  w.  ?" 
And  we  supposed  'twas  plain  as  day 
It  represented  b.  t.  w.! 


108 


We  even  have  been  asked  to  spell 
That  curt  locution,  m.  or  1. 
Now,  anybody  ought  to  guess 
That  m.  or  1.  is  m.  or  1. 

So  geht  es.  Almost  e.  o.  d. 
We  get  requests  to  "print  a  key," 
And  e.  o.  d.,  we  haste  to  say, 
Is  short  for  e.  o.  d. 


109 


ISLES  OF  SAFETY 

"To  avoid  colds,  keep  out  of  crowds" — Dr  Evans 

J-JOW  can  I  'scape  a  crowd  to-day 

In  all  this  teeming  city? 
I  know.     I'll  go  to  see  a  play 
That's  really  wise  and  witty. 

But  if  too  many  should  be  there, 

The  atmosphere  a-tainting, 
I'll  hunt  a  picture  gallery  where 

They  charge  to  see  a  painting. 

If  some  one  there  should  chance  to  be, 
And  still  I'd  dodge  the  pub., 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  library 
Of  almost  any  club. 

To  other  places  I  may  go, 
For  ample  breathing  spaces; 

And  doubtless,  reader,  you  too  know 
A  lot  of  likely  places. 


110 


THE  SATURATION  POINT 

Lines  precipitated  by  witnessing  a  performance 
of  "Conchita" 

J  DON'T  object  to  Sex,  as  such; 
'Tis  not  my  mind  to  flout  it. 
This  world  would  not  amount  to  much, 
One  may  concede,  without  it. 

But  Lord!  I'm  sick  of  plays  that  sound 

An  'elemental  passion,' 
In  which  folks  drag  each  other  round 

In  elemental  fashion. 

I'm  tired  of  'primal  passion'  fits, 

In  opry  and  in  drammer. 
Oh  can  the  passional  jiu-jits', 

And  open  up  some  glamour. 


Ill 


"LET  NOT  AMBITION  MOCK" 


dwells  among  the  trodden  ways. 
Within  the  limelight's  glow, 
A  man  whom  very  many  praise 
And  many  others  know. 

Though  high  his  titles,  wide  his  fame, 

And  boundless,  too,  his  pelf, 
I  do  not  know  this  person's  name; 

He  does  not  know  himself. 

That  is  (to  make  my  meaning  clear), 

He's  known  from  sea  to  sea; 
And  yet  'twould  tax  the  deepest  seer 

To  say  who  he  may  be. 

I  mean  (more  simply  still  to  state), 

His  name  is  now  unknown; 
And  yet  we  know  relentless  fate 

Has  marked  him  for  its  own. 

Although  his  name  may  be  to-day 

On  many  a  person's  tongue, 
In  one  short  year  he'll  fade  away, 

Unwept,  unsobbed,  unsung. 


112 


He  little  recks  that  Nemesis 
Will  snatch  him  by  surprise: 

And  sure,  where  ignorance  is  bliss 
'Twere  folly  to  be  wise. 

Who  is  this  man  so  prominent? 

Why  must  he  fade  so  soon? 
He  is  our  next  Vice  President: 

The  blow  will  fall  in  June. 

And  then  —  cold,  gray  Oblivion! 

Let  not  ambition  mock 
This  brother  to  the  mastodon 
And  cousin  to  the  roc. 


113 


PROPERTIUS  SINGS 

BOOK  I.      ELEGY  I 

JPAIR  Cynthia  was  first  to  undo  me, 

I  fell  for  her  beautiful  eyes; 
And  soon  every  Roman  that  knew  me 

To  my  indiscretions  got  wise. 
Some  gait  has  yours  truly  been  going  — 

I've  hit  all  the  high-spots  of  sin; 
The  wild  oats  that  I  have  been  sowing 

Would  fill,  crede  mihi,  a  bin. 

Milanion,  who  loved  Atalanta, 

Succeeded  by  being  a  pest  — 
Contriving  at  last  to  implant  a 

Reciprocal  love  in  her  breast; 
But  I've  been  so  long  off  the  woo  stuff, 

I'm  either  a  boob  or  too  bold; 
I'm  jerry  to  none  of  the  new  stuff, 

And  I  have  forgotten  the  old. 

Ye  abracadabra  professors, 

Ye  wizards  and  ringers  of  bells, 
Compounders  of  pills,  and  possessors 

Of  magical  passwords  and  spells, 
Get  next  to  the  dame  of  my  fancy, 

And  make  me  look  good  in  her  sight; 
Come  on  with  your  damned  necromancy, 

Or  else,  for  Propertius,  good  night! 

114 


Oh,  me  for  the  wings  of  the  morning, 

The  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth! 
I'd  leave  to  all  lovers  a  warning, 

To  chew  on  for  all  it  is  worth. 
And  this  my  advice  (if  you  ask  it): 

From  paths  that  are  primrose  refrain 
Put  all  of  your  eggs  in  one  basket, 

The  love  that  is  safe  and  is  sane. 


115 


ON  THE  FLOOR 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore!    Throw  that  stuff 
upon  the  floor!" 

"DEADERS  send  me  every  day 

Quips  and  jingles  by  the  score; 
Some  of  which,  I  grieve  to  say, 
Must  be  thrown  upon  the  floor. 

Some  are  clever,  some  are  crude, 
Some  have  been  in  print  before; 
Some,  alack,  are  much  too  good 
To  be  tossed  upon  the  floor. 

Space,  however,  has  its  bounds, 
As  I've  mentioned  heretofore; 
And  however  sad  it  sounds, 
Something  must  go  on  the  floor. 

It  is  not  that  I  regard 
Things  /  write  superior: 
Many  a  gem  of  mine  is  barred, 
And  is  flung  upon  the  floor. 

Many  a  mighty  line  I  trace, 
Many  a  thought  in  which  I  soar;  — 
But  there  simply  isn't  space, 
So  I  cast  it  on  the  floor. 


116 


Do  I  hear  some  reader  say, 
Do  I  hear  some  reader  roar, 
"Why  not  print  my  verses,  pray? 
Pitch  your  verses  on  the  floor!" 

True,  I've  used  up  precious  space 
(And  shall  need  a  little  more) 
To  present  my  simple  case  — 
Why  I  chuck  things  on  the  floor; 

But  I  fear  you're  unaware 
Just  how  keenly  I  deplore 
The  compulsion  brought  to  bear 
When  I  drop  stuff  on  the  floor. 

You  don't  always  know,  I  fear, 
That  I  read  your  verses  o'er 
And,  with  many  a  briny  tear, 
Throw  them  sadly  on  the  floor. 


117 


THE  ETERNAL  BROMIDE 

\\7'HEN  Adam  dolve  and  Eva  span, 
And  through  the  paths  of  Eden 

strayed, 
He  cut  for  her  a  fig-leaf  fan  — 

'Twas  ninety-something  in  the  shade. 
For  days  the  temperature  ran  high, 

'Twixt  ninety  and  a  hundred  ranging; 
Said  Eve:     "What  funny  weather!     My! 
I  think  the  climate  must  be  changing." 

When  good  King  Arthur  held  his  court, 

And  Guin  with  all  her  maidens  gay 
Went  forth  in  flowery  meads  to  sport, 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 
The  day  fell  hot,  and  Guinevere 

And  Miss  Elaine  exclaimed  together, 
"The  climate  must  be  changing,  dear; 

I  never  knew  such  funny  weather." 

From  neo-lithic  days  to  now, 

Recurrent  this  phenomenon; 
The  world  has  mopped  a  dripping  brow 

And  passed  the  hoary  saying  on. 
And  while  the  sun  pours  forth  its  heat, 

The  wits  of  mortal  man  deranging, 
We'll  echo  that  bromidic  bleat, 
"I  think  the  climate  must  be  changing." 

118 


THE  CREDIT  SIDE 


R  your  opinion  of  my 
strummings, 
Whatever  your  opinion  of  my  lyre, 
Whatever  my  poetical  shortcomings, 

However  much  I  leave  you  to  desire; 
Tho'  every  song  I  sing  should  be  a  flivver, 

One  feather  in  my  cap  were  sticking  still  — 
I  never  said  that  "life  is  like  a  river," 
Or  "faring  up  a  hard,  high  hill." 

I  am  at  times,  conceivably,  bromidic; 

My  metaphors  you  may  have  met  afore. 
I  am  net  always  startling  or  fatidic; 

My  similes,  conceivably,  may  bore. 
My  phrases  may  not  set  you  all  a-quiver, 

Their  power  to  surprise  you  may  be  nil; 
But  —  I  never  said  that  life  is  like  a  river, 

Or  climbing  up  a  hard,  high  hill. 

One  can't  be  sempiternally  sulphitic, 

One  has  to  broach  a  bromide  now  and  then  ; 
And  so  I  crave  indulgence  of  the  critic 

If  now  and  then  a  commonplace  I  pen. 
Whatever  be  the  goods  that  I  deliver, 

I've  never  sung  and  never,  never  will 
Articulate  that  life  is  like  a  river 

Or  toiling  up  a  hard,  high  hill. 

119 


DEGENERATE  DAYS 

ALTHOUGH  not  of  a  cloistral  turn, 

I  do  not  care  for  fistic  fetes. 
I  never  yearn  a  single  yearn 

For  pugilistic  joint  debates. 
Descriptions  of  affrays  Homeric 
Leave  me  as  cool  as  Robert  Herrick. 

'Tis  not  a  temperamental  chill. 

I  do  not  hesitate  to  say 
I'd  like  to  watch  an  old-time  mill 

If  I  might  sit,  a  summer's  day, 
Beside  Carinthia  in  her  carriage. 
(See  Meredith's  "Amazing  Marriage.") 

Translate  me  to  that  vanished  year, 
A  mise  en  scene  like  that  disclose, 

And  I  should  joy  to  see  and  hear 

The  ding-dong-bang  on  jaw  and  nose 

The  play  of  mighty  paws,  sans  mittens, 

Swung  in  an  "upright  fight  of  Britons." 

But  modern  fistics  do  not  thrall; 

They're  of  a  very  different  grain. 
The  Jeffs  and  Corbetts,  one  and  all, 

Give  me,  I'm  free  to  say,  a  pain. 
Enthusiasm?     Not  a  riffle. 
Fight  news,  to  me,  is  awful  piffle. 


120 


So  should  I  seem  to  knock  the  game, 
A  scornful  finger  seem  to  point, 

I  hope  it's  clear  I'm  not  to  blame, 
But  that  the  time  is  out  of  joint. 

That  I  should  find  the  thing  a  bore  is 

The  fault  of  Tempora  and  Mores. 


121 


WHEN  I  AM  GONE 

In  the  manner  of  Mr  Le  Gallienne 


I  am  gone, 

In  the  sweet  bye  and  bye, 
The  same  old  sky 
Will  meet  the  same  old  plain  — 
When  I  am  gone. 
Yes,  bye  and  bye, 
Some  sweet  young  thing,  with  face  against 

the  pane, 
Will  scan  the  sky, 
And  say,  "I'll  take  m'umbrella;  it  may 

rain"— 
When  I  am  gone. 


122 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND 

CHAINED  like  Prometheus  to  his  rock 

Am  I,  and  pecked  of  inky  flock, 
Because,  this  daily  lump  to  leaven, 
I  niched  a  little  fire  from  heaven. 

Not  more,  I  swear,  than  three  per  cent, 
Yet  sure  and  swift  my  punishment: 
A  flock  of  carping  birds  of  prey 
Are  pecking  at  me  all  the  day. 

Well,  let  them  peck,  and  peck  again, 
Mine  be  Promethean  disdain, 
Impervious  as  his  classic  rock 
To  every  veiled  or  obvious  knock. 

Mine  is  the  punishment  of  one 
Who  lights  his  taper  in  the  sun, 
A  visitation  dark  and  dire 
On  him  who  steals  immortal  fire. 

The  one  compunction  that  I  feel 
Is  that  it  was  so  small  a  steal. 
Hang  it!     I  wish  I'd  filched  enough 
To  put  a  flame  in  this  here  stuff. 


123 


SUPPLICATION 

1QIND  me  in  paper  or  bind  me  in  boards; 
If  merit  there  be,  let  the  text  within  show  it. 
Let  nothing  be  added. 
Don't  let  me  be  'padded' 
And  keep  me  from  being  an  'Ooze  Leather 
Poet: 


124 


INDEX 

After  the  Moving  60 

Art  Insurgent  44 

Ballade  of  the  "Christmas  Number"  102 

Ballade  of  Immortals,  A  76 

Ballade  of  a  Moss-Grown  Symbol  32 

Ballade  of  Oblivion  56 

Ballade  of  One  Virtue  68 

Ballade  of  Star  Dust,  A  22 

Battle  Song  28 

Between  Two  Critics  89 

Bon  Voyage!  66 

Bygones  40 

Canopus  14 

Children  29 

Commerce  and  Art  64 

Credit  Side,  The  119 

Currency  Bill,  The  86 

Cussed  Damozel,  The  17 

Degenerate  Days  120 

Devil's  Disciple,  The  73 

Especially  "Thru"  101 

Eternal  Bromide,  The  118 

Faith  Serene  78 

Gadder,  The  18 

Gentle  Critic,  The  95 

Great  Obsession,  The  62 

Height  of  the  Artistic,  The  42 

Hence  These  Tears  20 

Iconoclasts,  The  36 

Invocation  13 

Isles  of  Safety  110 

Jest  of  Yesteryear,  The  88 

Kitchen  Garden  of  Verses,  A  52 

Latest  Book,  The  80 

Lay  of  the  Last  Golfer,  The  65 


INDEX— Continued 

"Let  Not  Ambition  Mock"  112 

Long  and  the  Short  of  It,  The  108 

Lover's  Complaint,  A  72 

Love's  Au  Revoir  94 

Meditations  by  a  Mossy  Stone  104 

Modern  Matrimony  82 

New  Leaves  105 

"Nothing  to  Wear"  96 

Oh  Joy  84 

Old  Stuff  90 

On  the  Eve  30 

On  the  Floor  116 

Post-Impressionism  38 

Prometheus  Bound  123 

Propertius  Sings  114 

Rime  of  the  Betsy  Jane,  The  24 

Road  to  Anywhere,  The  50 

Saturation  Point,  The  111 

Season  Opens,  The  70 

Silver  Birches  49 

Song — Mr  C-rn-g-e  54 

Spring  in  the  Shops  16 

Supplication  124 

Those  Flapjacks  of  Brown's  26 

To  an  April  Egg  100 

To  Contributors '  106 

To  Julia— Styles  of  1913  58 

To  Lucasta  98 

To  Mary  Garden  71 

To  the  Proof  Room  34 

Utopia  79 

Vague  Memories  92 

When  I  am  Gone  122 

White-Throat,  The  48 

Wood  Memories  46 


